Toujours le chef est seul en face du mauvais
by Hihippy
Summary: ...destin. The leader is always alone before bad fates. A take on the Battle of Dunkirk and the evacuation. T for mild language. FrUK if you close an eye.


They were sat back to back on the beach. France's cigarette smoke drifted past the other, and he grumbles as he reaches out a hand.

"Might as well."

"I was wondering when you would ask."

Another one is placed in the British man's hand, and France removes the tube from his mouth momentarily to press the end against the other's, waiting a few moments until it glows. Satisfied, England moves his hand away and they return to their previous position, wisps of smoke settling around them.

There is a sigh.

"We are trapped."

"I know."

"What are your people's plans?"

There is another sigh, this one heavier and twisted with a hint of anxiety.

"I'm not sure. Like you said, we're trapped. Unless a bloody miracle happens, it's all over for you. What choice have we got? We may as well give ourselves over too."

"That is hardly the voice of the 'Great British Empire', _Angleterre_."

"Which is why I bloody said I don't know, alright? We... have to figure this out. I am not waving the white flag at that Kraut when I am 50 miles from home. I have been at the other end of the world and surrounded without giving up. Pigs will fly before I roll over and let them take me."

"_There_ is my _Angleterre_."

* * *

He was leaning against a tank, about to be abandoned and destroyed, when England approaches him. He waves a leaflet in his face, and France can only look back with tired eyes.

"Have you seen what they've been dropping on us?" He remarks, shoving the paper into the Frenchman's face. The map had a very distinct bold and printed line of where the British were and where the Germans were; surrounded on all sides.

"It looks like Germany would like you to give in."

A gleeful expression spreads on the Briton's face, which France can only suppose makes for a nice change.

"But he's got it _wrong,_ can't you see? The leaflet says that we're surrounded on all sides and that we have no choice but to surrender, but they're idiots. They're missing something."

"_Oui_?"

"The _sea_. They haven't taken the sea into consideration. They didn't think of us getting over it. They didn't think The British Empire, upon where the 'sun never sets', upon where it's colonies were founded upon traveling shores and dominating even the sea? I am a bloody island, how does he think I got here in the _first_ place?"

Smirking, England reaches forward and takes the leaflet from France, walking away.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, what else am I meant to use for toilet paper?"

* * *

"Hopefully this defence line will hold them off for a bit longer; it's not the best defence line I've ever seen I have to say but it's the best we can do in the circumstances-"

"The Belgian Army has surrendered."

"-What?"

France glares, no, gazes, at England because he is too tired to really be able to manage anything else. "They have surrendered. There is no hope for them now, they believe. They may as well make it easy for themselves. Of course, there is now a 20 mile gap in the defences-"

"I'll cover it." He stares, shifting. "Why haven't you, then?"

"Why have I not what?"

"Surrendered. It's bloody obvious you're nearly worse off than Belgium is, and yet you still haven't put down arms and stepped away from us lot yet."

"A desperate man calls for desperate measures."

"Yet you have a tendency to know when to pick your battles."

Francis gives him a look. A look that reads of tiredness, annoyance, determination and a look that hints if anyone else had asked that, he may have slapped them round the head.

So for once, this was a change with England.

"Because, _Angleterre_," he remarks, flicking a piece of ash that had fallen on the younger nation's shoulder from a nearby fire, "I am tired of war. I am _tired_."

* * *

"France, come on, we're going." England nudges him awake. There's a cut on his forehead, just starting to clot over.

"_Quoi_?"

"We're leaving, evacuating. Most of my men have gone; we're one of the last. Come on."

"In one of your silly boats? No doubt they will spring a leak and sink halfway across."

"Shut up, idiot. We need to get you out of here."

"_Non_."

"What? Don't be ridiculous. We need to-"

"_Non_,_ Angleterre_. I am not leaving my people behind."

England stands there for a moment, and doesn't know whether to be angry or sympathetic.

"I-I know you're weak, but I'll carry you, okay? Who knows what could happen if you stay here."

"I will be with my people, that is what will happen. Go, _mon cher_. You can take my troops. I trust you will put them to use."

"_No_ - fucking hell - I'm not _leaving_ you here!" And he's tugging, tugging at the clothing where his bones just feel so old and tired and how long has it been since France even got a proper night's sleep?

"Stop it," he remarks weakly, batting at the Briton's hand. He frowns. "Let me sleep. I think I am deserving of that."

"You think _now_ is a good time for a nap? Bloody... God help me, or I will drag you by your feet."

"Then I will just take my shoes off."

"I-I ... I thought you were tired of war?"

France makes the effort to look up at that, and he admits, what he saw surprises him. England's gazing down at him, hand outstretched, but there's pure, unadulterated… fear, in his eyes.

"No, come on. That is a _command,_ France. You don't have a choice."

France looks up at him, reaches out for his hand, before he pulls England to his level. He pulls him up against him, so their foreheads are practically touching.

"Yes, _oui_, but I cannot leave my people. What will happen to them once we are gone? I cannot bear to think about it. Even if it is the worst crime we have ever seen, I will not allow them to face it alone."

"We.. B-But we _promised_ we...we'd get you out of here."

France can't help but chuckle, a hint of bitterness. "Yes, and we still continued to help you escape. But it does not matter. A lot of my men are gone too, and that is fine. You should not be trapped away from your people. I may be trapped, but I am at the least with tem. Shhh," he murmurs, a thumb running against the other's cheek. "I will be fine. You are the only one who is allowed to kill me, remember? Now, go, there is a ship that is waiting for you."

England looks away, and his voice breaks. _Damnit._ "We... damnit, I _promised_, I'll be..."

France replies with a weak smile.

"No man is an island. I am sure _Amerique _will be joining you soon. Also, you will never get rid of me for too long." He emphasises the end by tapping the Briton on the nose. There's a pause, before he sighs.

"Now, _allez_! I cannot bear to be in the presence of those humongous eyebrows of yours one moment longer."

France looks up, and the last he sees of England is a younger officer encouraging him away from the nation. He gives one last look back at France, an eerily pained expression; fear for the now and the future.

War aged boys into men. For nations, it appears, it stripped them raw of any wisdom they could manage to keep a hold of.

France sighs to himself, alone on the beaches of Dunkirk. He finds that he has run out of cigarettes. _Angleterre_ has taken the last one. He cannot help but roll his eyes.

_I am the only one allowed to kill you._

_Not if I can get to him first_, he can't help but think.


End file.
